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“Yeah that’s me, no polite dinner conversation from me,” I suggested laughing.“Why don’t you take the night off and take me out for a drink,” Tonya asked.“Actually I wanted to make some plans for tomorrow. You really shouldn’t be going out alone. Not even down to the hotel beer and wine bar in the parking lot. If you need a drink bad enough, we can stop and buy a bottle of wine in a grocery store,” I suggested.“All right,” she said. “But something from a good grocery store,” she demanded.“My how the mighty have fallen. Grocery store wine how gauche,” I suggested with a laugh. She parked near the door and we got out of the car.“Give me your wallet,” a large black man with a pistol demanded, With my left hand I fumbled for the wallet, which had twenty odd dollars in it. It had no credit cards or Id of any kind. While his attention was on me going for the wallet in my pants, my right hand moved nearer my fishing vest. I dropped the wallet on the ground, and he dropped his eyes to the. I was reconciling the April accounts ready for the following Monday’s board meeting. We had kept the dairy going as a separate concern from both the farm and the crop dusting businesses, so it could be sold off easier if we needed to. Anything over a dollar plus the clean-up costs were pure profit. But the dairy was going so well, especially with the new Milk Bar, that we kept it going, with just Joe, Granny Harris and myself as secretary, on the board. The telephone on my desk rang, so I answered. It was Suzanne in Reception saying I had a visitor. I wasn’t expecting anyone, so I asked her who it was. The answer came back, “A Mister di Angelo is here to see you.”The only di Angelo I knew was my late husband Gianni, who I understood was killed in 1929 in Canada, murdered with his only brother by rival bootleggers. I asked Suzanne to send him up to my office. I got up out of my chair and met him at the doorway. I couldn’t believe it! It was my Gianni, raised as if from the dead.I.
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